Ask Altair!
by iguanablogger
Summary: EXPIRED. Thank you all for participating! Please visit the poll at Iguanablogger's profile to vote for the next Ask fiction letter. POLL EXPIRES APRIL 18TH.
1. Foreword

January 4th, 2012

Hey everyone!

Before we get started, I'd just like to lay down some guidelines:

1) Feel free to ask Altair anything, but please keep in mind that this letter is for all audiences. Try to keep it as G-rated as you can.

2) All questions must be dated either using actual years, or the Assassin's Creed timeline. This is so that the editor knows which Altair you are addressing (ie, the young, arrogant apprentice, the new husband, the wise mentor, etc).

3) Please try to sign your letters with a name. It doesn't even have to be your name, if you're shy. Any name is better than nothing.

**4) Concerning pairings: tread lightly. **

5) Replies to questions will hopefully come Sundays and Wednesdays. Ask Altair **will **be updated at least once a week.

6) Please try to keep your questions as detailed as possible; You have to give the man something to work with. Vague questions such as "what's your favorite color" or "what's your favorite animal" will most likely be ignored for lack of sustenance.

7) Have fun!

We look forward to receiving your letters!

_**(Oh, and don't forget everyone- Altair's birthday is January 11th!) **_


	2. One: Scar

January 8th, 1195

**Numbah1367 asks: **

** "Dear Altair,**

** When and how did you get the infamous scar on your lip?" **

To the anonymous,

I would like to begin with a word of introduction. This entire idea of receiving and responding to letters from people I will never meet nor benefit from seems very foreign, but my editor has been explaining it to me slowly. She tells me that my inquisitors already know my name, my history, and my future. I find this difficult to grasp, but I am trying hard to understand. If there are any mistakes or oddities in the letters that are to come, please bear in mind that all this is new to me.

Now, in response to your question. The scar you are referring to was a punishment for insolence, and a very direct punishment it was.

I will digress:

It was an afternoon many years ago (the date escapes me). I was a brash boy of sixteen, finding my place amidst the rabble of novices that walked Masyaf's halls. Through effort and practice, I rose to the best in my grade, and was given the appropriate respect from my peers.

On that day, our instructor decided to hold a race. A race was a very exciting thing- races determined who was ready to move up in rank and who needed more training. A race could make a man's reputation or defile it. Needless to say when my troupe arrived in the neighboring village we were to use, it buzzed with anxiety.

The village leader was aware of our needs, and had cleared out the rooftops and alleyways for our use. His kfar was under Masyaf's protection, and so he complied peacefully with our requirements.

We all lined up on the widest rooftop, a gaggle of chicks about to leave our nests. Our instructor paced before us, a long blade's tip rested on his palm. He was a very crude man, a fine teacher, but someone who had experienced hardship and crisis.

It was excruciatingly hot that afternoon as he explained the race parameters. When we'd first arrived I'd half-hoped the race would be called off, for the heat was so strong. It beat upon us in waves, and even the shade (where we could find it) offered no respite. Our hoods were the only reason our minds had not yet left our heads, fried to a crisp by the sun's warmth. Sweat dampened the faces and necks of all the recruits, only to evaporate upon hitting the air.

The master, it appeared, remained unaffected. I don't remember any of the things he said or whether they were important. I do know that when he gave the word, I bolted forward. My body obeyed me subconsciously, and the wind felt wonderful on my skin (hot though it was). I was so young, and oh so fast. For a long while I held the lead and nothing could slow me. I was a stallion that had been set free upon the grasslands.

And then…slowly, to the right of my eye, another recruit picked up his pace. He was a smaller fellow than I was then, and very swift. Soon he and I were shoulder to shoulder, leaping in time, scrambling up walls in synchronization. It would have been enjoyable, had we not both been so desperate to win.

As we ran, we began to pant. I was faring well, though my lungs ached and my robes were sullied beyond repair. The recruit beside me, however, was not coping as such. From what I remember, his face was flushed red with heat and exertion, and his movements became clumsy and sloppy.

It occurred to me around then that holding a race on such a day had been unwise, and that we students had been irrational to attend. The heat was so intense that day… it was unbearable simply to stand- to push oneself to the breaking point was just stupid. And yet we did it merely for a pat on the head.

While I was thinking this, my companion collapsed into the dirt. For a moment, I was torn: to stay and help him would be to forfeit victory. To forfeit victory was to forfeit my favor in the master's eyes, to be deemed unready to progress. To stop on the field during a race for any reason was an automatic loss, punishable by demotion and, in some cases, suspension.

But this was my brother, and his life was in danger. Therefore, I skidded to a halt and returned to where he lay, calling his name in my weak voice. I dragged the boy from the sun's relentless beatings and brought him into the shade of a nearby garden, where he slowly began to recover his wits. What little water I had with me I immediately gave to him, the poor wretch. He drank it greedily and coughed up sand.

It was apparent the boy was too sick to move. When I hopped out of the garden to fetch help, our instructor appeared with a few others of the apprentices. I told him of the young man's condition, and soon the entire situation had been taken care of.

Later that day, however, the instructor returned for me. I had been sitting in the bureau with my brothers, speaking earnestly of the race, when he called me out.

"Altair," He began in a tone I did not like, "You stopped out on the field today. I would like to know why."

"You know already, mentor," I told him honestly, "my brother was sick with heat."

"Yet you disobeyed my orders and helped him," My response had been in the wrong, it seemed, for my instructor grew angry, "These tests are designed to pick out the weak and highlight the strong. That boy fell because he was weak."

This reply struck something within me. A blush spread across my cheeks, for he had embarrassed me before my fellows. But he had also made me cross, and though I knew I shouldn't have, I said hotly:

"He was not weak. He is but flesh and blood, and he could not protect himself from the heat of the day because you would not let him."

The master said nothing, but his expression grew dark. I continued to speak, noting that I had gained the attention of my brothers.

"You forced us out on the course despite knowing its dangers. Every single one of your students could have died this day, and you would have considered them 'weak'. It was a fool's errand, and you the fool for it!"

There was silence in the bureau for a long time after, and I began to wish I could take my words back. It was very clear that I had crossed the line; I had shown an Assassin extreme disrespect.

"Altair," My instructor said calmly. I almost apologized right there, "Close your eyes."

I bowed my head and did as I was commanded, knowing that the gaze of every man in the room lay on me. Fearfully, I wondered what the teacher intended to do.

I learned soon enough- a searing pain spread across my mouth. I cried out, and then my tongue was cut as well. Soon my entire jaw was wet with blood, and my lids flew open. I held my face with my hands, feeling out the stinging wound. The taste of blood was everywhere, coating my teeth, staining my hands and robes. It was vile and abrasive, and I spat the red liquid onto the floor and coughed it from my throat.

"Learn from this," The instructor yelled to the rest of his apprentices, "Do not wag your tongue against your better, lest you wish him to cut it out."

But he had not cut out my tongue, for he had heard wisdom in my complaint. Of course, it is possible that when I had hissed with pain, the dagger had slipped and cut my lip instead of my mouth. I still believe this cut was intentional, and that my teacher had mercy on me at the last moment.

However, as I grew and continued to train with my fellows, the scar on my lip did not heal. It was a constant reminder to myself and to those around me that I had spoken out of turn and brought shame upon my mentor.

Even today, when I find myself short with my friends, my wife, or even our little son, I take a look at that scar. It reminds me not to wag my tongue, lest my actions bring punishment upon us.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	3. Two: Birthday

January 11th, 1250

**SpottedStarShell asks: **

** "Dear Alty,**

** What's the best birthday party anyone ever threw for you, and who? How'd it go?**

** What was your favorite gift?"**

To the anonymous,

Birthdays were not very celebrated occasions when I was growing up. In fact, it was rare for a child to even know the date of his own birth, and if such a child did not possess parents, he often forgot it. I myself did not know my birthday until Malik and I found a group of tomes with records of every Assassin born within the walls of Masyaf, safely stowed in the library.

Even after we discovered the date I entered the world, we did not view it as a special event. For many years, January eleventh came and went without so much as a second glance.

It was my children that suddenly made my birthday something to think about.

Darim arrived in an angry, bloody mess one late summer evening. After countless months of waiting, my child had finally come. When I first held him, first felt the soft down of his hair and the glossiness of his skin, I knew I would remember that day forever. I had studied the infant boy for a long, long time, trying to burn every single detail into my memory so that for the rest of my life, I would know those first few moments of fatherhood.

Maria took the matter to heart even more than I did, going so far as to celebrate Darim's birthdate in _every _month. The tiny baby who shared her eyes was all she could think about, and so consequently all I could think about. And when one year later, the same day came about, Maria and I could not help but celebrate the fact that our son was healthy, growing, and strong.

So the years passed as such, and another child appeared. Sef was no less beloved than Darim, and Maria felt no reason why Masyaf should not hold two birthday festivals a year.

Both of my children grew to understand what their birthdays were, and why they were being commemorated. But it was Sef, at the age of three, who brought an interesting detail to my attention:

"Father?"

I had been resting when he came to me. Long nights spent observing the Apple (an ancient artifact I will not discuss here) wreaked havoc on a man's body. My little brown-eyed child approached with caution.

"Why don't you have a birthday?"

I smiled and raised my head from its lofty perch on a cushion. I drew Sef closer and ran my fingers through his knotty hair, so like my own. "Whatever gave you that idea?"

Sef fidgeted, "Darim has one. I have one. Mother has one. Why don't you?"

I wanted to answer that it didn't matter to me whether or not I had a birthday party, but I stopped. My parents had no love for me, or if they did I do not recall any expression of it. Had I been a wanted child? Or an accident? I would never know. My mother, from what little I remember of her, never celebrated the day I was born.

But I had raised my own children to believe otherwise. I raised them to think their birthdates were important, that they were symbols of affection. And if my son wanted me to have a birthday…it was only because he loved me.

And so I answered, "I have always had a birthday, Sef. But now I might have something more."

That was how my very first birthday party came to fruition. Thirty-six years old, and wandering through the customs of the 'birthday boy' like a child. Maria was thrilled with the idea, of course, and took responsibility for the entire event. Malik called me childish and self-absorbed, but came to the banquet nonetheless (in fact, after this party we began to celebrate his birthdate as well).

Darim, a bold five-year old at the time, made me a drawing. He presented it at the hall where we feasted, so the entire Brotherhood might see his works. We believe it was a portrait, possibly of me, possibly of Masyaf at large. Either way, the painting is very much treasured to this day (though no one but I has seen it for several decades).

Sef tried to give me the present Maria enjoyed giving him: kisses. For the number of years since their birth, my wife thought it cute to give each child the same number of kisses on the cheek. However when it was explained, with some difficulty, to Sef that he would need to kiss me thirty-six times, the poor child collapsed with exhaustion. In the end, he gave me only three. A fair compromise, Maria had named it, as without the six I was only three years old.

I got up, with little Sef in my arms, before the entire Assassin Order. Masyaf in its entirety watched as the little boy licked his lips and pressed them against my face three times in what I believe was the fastest motion I have ever seen.

The hall echoed with laughter as I snuggled my son back, and we all sat down to eat. My memory of the rest of that night is folded at the edges and somewhat blurry, but sweet nonetheless. I remember asking Maria jokingly if she would be the one to give me the additional thirty-three kisses. Malik had informed me that he was impressed with my ability to spawn a boy so romantically skilled, and even Abbas seemed less vehement than usual.

Now Masyaf is much quieter than it was then. The great hall is desolate after twenty years of misuse. The tables are missing, the walls are dusty, the floors are cracked, and the decorations are gone.

But if I stand there long enough and strain my ears, I can still hear the laughter…

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	4. Three: Wedding

January 15th, 1247

** Mayte asks:**

** "Dear Altair,**

** I have two questions!**

** 1: How did you propose to Maria? (When? Where?)**

** 2: What was your wedding like? (Was it yours, or Maria's religious views? Or both?)**

** Also, I hate Abbas as well…"**

Mayte,

My wife Maria and I were married in Limassol, a city in Cyprus. I must admit that the event was completely unplanned and frankly embarrassing.

Although Maria likes to over-romanticize it, I remember the truth of the occasion. And the truth, as it happens, was very basic: Maria was pregnant.

I remember my thoughts of the ex-Templar at the time… I believed her admirably brave, intelligent, and a good partner. Maria could easily pick out the flaws in any plan I hatched, and (unlike my trusted advisor, Malik) could repair them without berating me.

But marriage had been the farthest thing from my mind. Yes, I trusted Maria with my life, and I was sure I wanted a future with her. But an everlasting bond between us? A possible fatherhood? As a young man of twenty-eight, how could I feel ready to take on such things?

The day she told me remains highlighted in my memory. I had been in our Den's workroom, studying a few maps with my friend and ally, Markos. Maria had been anxious when she entered, which immediately planted the seed of doubt in my mind. Maria was never anxious.

"Altair?"

She also never asked for my permission to speak.

Markos and I looked up, and I nodded for her to continue.

"How much longer will we be staying in Limassol?"

Her tone had unnerved me. I'd shrugged as I answered:

"As long as it takes to establish a firm presence here. As soon as I know our Dens are well protected, I will return to Masyaf. You are free to come along, of course."

My answer didn't seem to please her. She looked about and fidgeted with her fingers (again, things she never did) as she remarked:

"Er…how many months do you think that would be?"

Markos nudged me, probably to flip my attention back to the task at hand, but I ignored him.

"Probably four or five. Why?"

"I…" She cleared her throat, "I do not think a woman five months with child should travel."

At first I had been very confused. I had not planned on taking any other women but her, and… then it hit me. The realization was more surprising than a slap to the face.

"You are…?" I couldn't even get the words out. Maria lifted her chin and looked proud.

Behind me, Markos laughed. He hugged us both, proclaiming we were to be married within the month. I argued briefly that if we were to be married, it should be within the walls of Masyaf- somewhere where all of the Brotherhood could take note of my actions. If I were truly Mentor, I would not celebrate my 'greatest happiness' anywhere but home.

But Markos was adamant, and after a while Maria began to call my protests rude and ungrateful. And so, in the spring of 1193, we were married. The wedding was of Cyprus tradition, which neither of us were very educated in. I probably the less so, as many of its facets were of Catholic origin.

The night before the celebration, we were bathed, swathed, and generally cleaned in every way possible. We were given fresh clothes- a set of dark, formal robes for me (with a hood thoughtfully sewn on at Markos' request), and for Maria, a stunning but very modest gown. Before I went to sleep that night, my ally visited me yet again. He informed me that there would be a band waiting to greet me at my door, and that I should not feel alarmed if I should awaken to music.

Honestly, the entire event went too fast. Once I was up and dressed, I was being herded through the streets by a group of overzealous musicians. I was not given too much time to think. As we walked, well wishers threw their blessings at me, and I nodded in respect as best I could.

Soon we arrived at a small chapel, where Markos was eager to greet me at the door. He laughed at my appearance, stating I looked like a dog dragged from its kennel. When I drew close, Markos pressed a ring into my hand and placed a crown of leaves atop my head. I opened my mouth to ask him why, but he whispered instructions into my ears hastily.

We did not go inside the chapel for some time. According to tradition, I was to wait with a bouquet of flowers for my bride to come, accompanied by her father. However when Maria arrived she was alone, save for a few ladies she had befriended and their daughters. Her dress was elegant, yet simple, and she also wore a wreathe. However, hers was intertwined with flowers and rested so beautifully on her dark hair.

Her eyes were painted, and lace had been added to her long sleeves to make them even more slimming. Maria smiled at me as she approached, and I tried to smile back- but in truth I was nervous and fretful. I knew nothing of weddings, marriage, or any sort of religious tradition. This was Maria's second wedding, and third engagement. If my performance wasn't lacking at least, it would be downright terrible.

She took my arm, her flowered head lying on my shoulder.

"Don't look so intimidated, love," She chuckled, "it's just a wedding."

We proceeded down the church's aisle as one. A priest waited for us at the other end, with loaves of bread and a jug with ornate cups. Markos joined me at the altar, and one of Maria's friends stayed with her.

The priest spoke to us in Greek for a long time. I did not exactly pay attention to what he said, so busy was I absorbing the scene. Maria stole my gaze for many a word, but she seemed intent on committing our bond to memory. I instead imprinted her. She was so perfect that day, and I don't think she was that beautiful again in her entire life. I had never been so sure that I had wanted to spend my years with someone until that morning. I was finally ready to start a family with this woman.

We were given bread and wine, and we exchanged our rings three times. As we drank, Markos removed my crown and replaced it with Maria's. We were then asked to join hands, and as we did so I looked into her eyes, and she into mine. The incident was something I'd practically been forced into, yet there was nowhere else on earth I'd rather be. I began to wonder if I deserved this feeling, this love that bubbled within me, or this loyal lady before me who was about to become my companion for life.

As I pondered, the priest slowly took the wreathes from our heads and set them down. He then gently split our hands, announcing to the few guests that only god could separate us now.

And just like that, we were married.

There was a celebration, again headed by Markos, that lasted throughout the rest of the day. After they had successfully forced enough wine down my throat, I agreed to dance with Maria. Many of the students I'd spent the last few months teaching to head Assassin Dens came to congratulate me. As a newlywed couple, we received many gifts. So many gifts, in fact, that I began to suspect Markos was not as confidential with our wedding as he should have been.

Maria and I went to the same bed that night, although not for the first time. Something had been slightly off in her conduct earlier however, and it had led me to guess the truth. As we lay together, I murmured into her hair:

"You are not with child, are you."

She sighed and wrapped her legs around mine. Proof that although I had assumed correctly, she was not cross with me.

"No."

I allowed for a few moments of silence, returning her gesture by tightening my embrace around her middle.

"Then why the lie?"

"Because you are far too big a pansy to have ever asked me yourself."

I could not argue with that, because it happened to be true.

However, as I sit here now, writing at my cold little desk far from Cyprus, I cannot help but feel bitter. It was not god that took Maria from me; it was my own anger. I am the one responsible for her death- not god, not Abbas, nor anyone else. And I miss her so very dearly. I would give anything to hear her laugh again, to her hear scold me, or to feel the weight of her head on my shoulder.

But I do not hate Abbas, not nearly as much as he hates me, anyway. I pity him, for he never experienced true love and commitment the way marriage forced me to. Maria might have lied to get me to marry her, but I am glad she did. I cannot imagine a life without ever having met her. She was such an extraordinary woman.

And she will forever remain so in my heart.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	5. Four: First Kill

January 22nd, 1254

**Sara asks: **

** "Dear Grandmaster Altair, **

** I have many questions, but I'll settle for the one that probably won't make you want to stab me. What was your first kill like? It might seem kind of forward, but I wouldn't bother asking if I didn't want to know. If you answer, thank you for bothering to."**

Safety and peace, Sara.

My first kill was not as well planned nor skillful as the murders our Brotherhood is trained to bring about. In fact, it happened quite by accident.

I was young, barely over the age of sixteen. But I had shown great promise and talent, and so the Master awarded me with the rank of 'Journeyman'. You see, one must travel the land and take on an apprenticeship in order to fully understand the Creed; it cannot be grasped simply by sitting in a study reading, as my colleague, Malik, often argued it could.

The Assassin's name was Harad, but to us he was 'Mentor'. I was instructed to join him along with his usual apprentice, a boy only a few years older than me known as Baishan, on his task to kill a well-informed Templar. Baishan filled me in on their mission during the long ride to Jerusalem, where we would be stopping to rest. The Templar was supposedly hiding in a village near there, attempting to pass on knowledge of our activities.

Harad had been charged with killing the informant and returning whatever he had stolen to Masyaf. A menial task, but one that we novices could learn much from. However, the Assassin did not care for me. When I presented myself before him, he laughed scornfully.

"I was twenty-years-old when I became a journeyman," Harad told me when we reached the city, "and I was greatly gifted. You are either desperate or a very good liar."

Despite the distaste my mentor had for me, I studied his technique closely. Baishan took note as well, but he was far more lax. The boy was timid, unwilling to act. When Harad killed a man after interrogating him, Baishan was unable to understand why. The Assassin did not explain himself, stating that a good student will learn the answers from his surroundings.

It fell to me to enlighten the other novice when our teacher was not watching.

Inevitably, the day of the assassination came. Harad, a haughty man, commanded us to hide while he dispatched the target. Our mentor's arrogance could only be rivaled by the Templar he was sent to kill, who stood in his courtyard in full armor and red cross.

Baishan and I climbed into a haystack and watched the scene unfold. Harad approached, hidden blade drawn and thirsting for blood. But before he could strike, the Templar let out a yell and several guards appeared, blocking our master's exit.

The battle frayed my nerves, and I itched to jump out of hiding. When a Templar sword broke through Harad's parry and sliced into his shoulder, I nearly drew my own weapon in my rush to help. I am sure Baishan saved my life that day by holding me back.

We watched helplessly as our teacher lost the upper hand and fell to his knees, bloodied and beaten. The Templar muttered something we could not hear before ending his life. Baishan looked away, but I watched the blade slice through Harad's throat. It was then that I realized just how true the sayings were: pride is the enemy of wisdom.

The target sheathed his sword and nudged Harad's body with his boot. He ordered his guards to fan out and search the area.

"Doubtless there are more of these rats about. Find them."

Baishan and I quietly slipped away, where the older boy was very distraught. I tried my best to calm him, but we were only children. It was obvious that we were both afraid.

In the end, execution of the mission passed to me. I half suggested we follow the Templar a ways and see if we could ambush him. My fellow agreed, although we were disappointed to find the man patrolling with the remainder of his guards searching for us.

"Find some way to distract them," I instructed Baishan, "I will kill the Templar."

"There's no way that will work, Altair. Templars are master swordsman, and not even our mentor could defeat him!"

"Do we have another option?"

Baishan was not happy with my plan, but he did concur eventually. He sprung forward and shouted at the guards, taunting them. As we anticipated, our target was enraged and allowed the escort to leave.

Once his back was turned, I pounced. But before my sword could run him through, the Templar drew his own blade and caught my thrust.

"The Assassins must be shorthanded," he remarked with a grin, attempting without success to disarm me, "I kill one, and the old man sends children to take his place!"

It was a struggle, to be sure. His blows were too much for me, and I am afraid I suffered greatly before luck turned over to my side.

After another failed dodge, my opponent knocked me to the ground. I lied there for a moment, staring up at the sky through my spotted vision. My fingers curled tightly around my sword hilt when I tried to rise, but the Templar pressed his boot into my wrist, pinning it to the ground.

I saw something strange in his eyes when he looked at me. My breath was drawn, my eyes were wide with alarm and fury, and my entire body seemed worn. I must have looked like a young horse pushed too far, but I did not feel that way.

He raised his sword to impale me, but he did not follow through. This puzzled me greatly. The Templar had not hesitated to kill Harad. But when he stared at me…it was with a type of recognition. We stayed in that little stalemate for a while, the Templar studying me while my mind raced to find a way out of it. Soon, it looked almost as though the man was about to lower his weapon.

At that moment, Baishan returned. He yelled my name, distracting my enemy. I used that time to pull my sword loose and lash out, shouting angrily.

The Templar groaned as my steel cut at the unprotected part of his knee. He sank to the ground for a moment, which was long enough for me to climb on top of him and thrust my blade into the red fabric of his cross.

But this did not kill him.

He lingered for a few more minutes, during which I found I could not move. The full realization of what I'd done only came when I felt Baishan's hand on my shoulder, staring in awe at the life ending before our eyes.

Our target murmured something just before he died. I think it was intended for me, but I did not hear it. I believe it was a name, but it was a foreign one I did not understand.

When Baishan helped me to my feet I was nearly overcome by the severity of my wounds. I had expected guilt, although for some reason I did not feel it. As we rode back to Masyaf, my body sore and heavy, I wondered how many times I would watch the light fade from others before I lost a part of myself.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	6. Five: Sef's Execution

January 29th, 1255

**Lady Epicness asks: **

** "Dear Altair,**

** If you and Abbas had switched places at the time of the execution of your son, Sef, with both Abbas' perspective and your own, do you think you would've done the same thing? Executed his son? Or would you punish him some other way?"**

To the anonymous,

You pose a difficult question.

As I have stated before, I do not hate Abbas. But I believe that once I left Masyaf, whatever delusions his mind suffered about my family and myself became more pronounced.

I suppose he felt that I did not deserve to lead the Brotherhood, or that I was unjust in my killing of Al Mualim. Whatever his motives were, Abbas was adamant on retaking the Order for himself, and he was ready to murder whoever did not agree.

When Darim, Maria and I set out for Mongolia, I delegated my good friend and fellow, Malik Al-Sayf, as the headmaster in my place. I would have offered the position to my son, Sef, but he would not have accepted it. The man was a fine leader and a brilliant scholar, but he was very humble in his ways. Sef spent his boyhood in Darim's shadow, but there was never any strife between the two. They worked together always; Sef conceived the plans and Darim carried them out. I could not have wished for wiser children.

Abbas must have had Sef executed because my son was willing to stand up to his reign. Abbas was a coward, unwilling to use words and reason to quell his opposition. I think the one reason he imprisoned Malik is because he still feared me. Once, in my youth, I saved Abbas from the crippling power of the Apple. I believe on that day I earned a measure of respect from him that he was still unwilling to betray thirty years later.

However, it was no secret that Abbas still harbored a deep loathing for my family. Perhaps some part of his conscious knew that killing Sef was not necessary, but he convinced himself to ignore it. If I were in Abbas' stead at the moment of that pivotal decision, I would have put my feelings aside and said, 'what I do is for the good of the Brotherhood'. It didn't matter whether or not he had a special hatred of the man being sentenced; he was merely making a sacrifice for the greater good.

But I do not think I would have made that sacrifice. If Abbas had been Grandmaster instead and left his son behind, it would have been far more productive to attempt subterfuge. Most likely, I would have found a way to turn the boy to my side, to make him betray his father. Then, perhaps I would have Abbas' right hand man executed, and when the old Mentor returned to his fortress he would approach only to be expelled by his own flesh and blood.

Only after I had taken possession of the Brotherhood would I dwell on the fate of Abbas' son. I would have tried everything I could before killing him, that much I know for certain. A child cannot be held accountable for the actions of his father; this is almost on par with murdering an innocent.

But, as my dear friend Malik once said, we can never know anything. Only suspect. The above is what I suspect I would have done, but there is no way to know undoubtedly.

Finally, after several decades, the torturous conflict that was Abbas has faded. I have resolved the issue that divided our Order for so long, but I wonder at what cost. Sometimes I think that it was not Abbas that took my loved ones from me, it was my own spite. Other days I am convinced that there was nothing I could possibly have changed that would let me gaze upon my little boy once more.

It is little use to pine over the past. What's done is done, and surely I am the better for it.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	7. Six: Pointless

February 5th, 1205

**Ja****deah asks:**

"**Sup Altair,**

**Have you and Malik ever done anything stupidly pointless in your free time when you were younger? So random that the both of you questioned why the heck you even bothered?"**

Safety and peace, Jadeah.

As I assume you know, I hold my companion Malik Al-Sayf in great esteem. However, I can recall one instance many years ago when we did engage in an act (that he instigated) we later heralded: "considerably questionable".

I am hesitant to put such memories to paper. Should this information somehow leak from my letter to the rest of the Brotherhood, I will have more than Malik's anger to deal with. However, my editor assures me that this column will not be read by anyone I am familiar with, and so I shall divulge my tale: (I certainly expect your silence as well, Jadeah)

It was the spring of 1184. Malik and I had achieved the title of Master Assassin at a young age, and were suitably arrogant for it. After an accident occurred involving one of my pupils (a stupid knave I had little patience for), the Master thought it best for the two of us to spend some time away from the fortress. Al Mualim instructed that Malik and I journey alone to visit our contacts in the southeast, the desert. I saw it as a worthless errand, but Malik was prepared to do anything the Mentor thought necessary.

The two of us traversed the wasteland for days, stopping only to sleep, eat, and water our horses. We were both restless, eager to be done with the mission and return to a place where we were important. But just before we'd set out, the Master had called to me. He'd said:

"Altair, my boy. I know you believe this assignment a waste of time, but it will become one of the most essential in your history. This assignment will teach you _humility."_

Back at Masyaf I had snickered at the old man's words. But when Malik and I rode across the desert with no company but our thoughts and heated words, I began to consider. Was I not humble? How could an errand meant for a schoolboy possibly teach me humility?

I would not understand until we reached the city of Lihitadem. Supposedly, Malik and I would find a group of specialized spies within the city walls, waiting for contact from the Assassin Brotherhood. I do not recall further details…I believe Malik was responsible for those. I merely tagged along because I was forced to.

Malik and I left our horses with a stable boy and entered the large town. Evening had come, and the streets were dusted with the blue shades of the coming night. There was a modest crowd walking the road, but we knew it would not last long. Lihitadem held many residents, but it was not a busy place. Most of those men and women simply wanted to get home.

Eventually, we came to the tavern the spies were set to meet us at. I fell into one of the nearby wooden booths and raised my arm for a drink. Malik admonished me, claiming that we should look our sharpest when our potential allies arrived. I responded that it was not possible for a travel-weary man to look sharp without a mug of ale. In the end, my fellow Assassin's own thirst betrayed him and we both nursed tall beers.

Hours slipped by, and our contacts did not show themselves. The tavern's owner watched us anxiously, perhaps wondering why we did not pick up and leave as many other guests were doing. A few merchants passed our booth remarking that they had never seen us here before, but Malik silenced them with a concentrated glare and a twitch of the ring finger. We were in our element. We were men on a mission. We would not be disturbed.

By the time the first of the spies arrived, Malik and I had swum our way through more than just two glasses of beer. Our cups were filthy with the stuff, and mine had fallen to the ground with a wet splat when our targets walked in. I believe we were still clear headed, but…perhaps we might not have been. My recollection fades in and out.

What I do remember is that the spies were not who we had been told they were. I had been expecting a group of honest men, not too shabby and not too posh; men who would blend in well with almost any environment.

Instead, when I looked up I was met with a small woman. She appeared only a few years older than Malik, and her hair was uncovered. She stared at us and her eyes narrowed.

"I understand you two represent the Brotherhood of Rashid Ad-Din Sinan."

I did not like her tone, and told her as such. Malik remained quiet, studying the woman with his chin resting in his palm.

She scoffed, "I ask the old man if his Order is worth the risk, and he sends me two drunk boys."

"We are not drunk," I explained sternly, "we are on a very important mission to meet…" I paused, wondering what exactly it was we were meant to do. "To meet…"

The woman sighed an "I see". Then, she began to smile. She asked us if we had a place to stay for the night- I replied that we did not. She then proceeded to quite generously offer to take us home with her.

Now here's where your question comes into play, Jadeah. Had we been smart, functioning adults, we would not have agreed. We would have found a local inn, slept off the hangover and set to work meeting with our contacts the next day. We would have considered the pros and cons of leaving safety with some scantily dressed stranger off the street. Not to use reason was stupid, pointless, and even now Malik and I do not know why we threw aside years and years of trained discipline.

We followed her unquestioningly. The woman led us through the darkened paths of the town, which I do not remember the shapes of. We came to a nice, large house near the city's southernmost wall.

She led us inside where a group of similarly robed girls were waiting. Not one of them could have possibly been older than us. They cheered when we walked (or stumbled) in, immensely happy to greet us at whatever hour of the night it was.

Our host gathered them together and we were introduced:

"These are the mighty Assassins that Rashid has sent to mock us," she told them, "he thinks we are not strong enough to aid him in his fight."

I'd wanted to contradict her, but somehow I'd lost the will to speak. My eyes fell on the girl nearest me and stayed there.

"Let us show him what we are capable of."

At that point Malik and I had been bordering on semi-conscious. He was being oddly silent, and when one of the giggling girls approached him, he grabbed at her. A few of them approached me as well, locking their thin arms around mine.

Our struggled was limp and vain as the women dragged us away. We were taken to a room with many pillows and sheets, and there we were made to inhale something that absolutely disfigures my memory.

I was quite happy about it, though. I can remember that much.

When I awoke the next morning, I was naked. Much to my horror, Malik was beside me in a similar state, though he was still snoring loudly. I sat upright (though the motion hurt my head), and examined our room; it was empty. Completely and honestly empty. The two of us were lying in the dirt.

The hardest part of that day was trying to find a way out of our prison. I pieced together that Malik and I had been dumped in the storage closet of some greasy inn, but there was nothing to use to cover myself but a small, disgusting looking dishtowel. I could find nothing to give to Malik.

The devils had taken our weapons as well, including my hidden blade. This greatly upset me, and later that day I tried desperately to get it back. Thankfully, after I explained to our host of last night how fragile her neck was, we were not separated long. However, we were refused our clothing, our ammunition, our horses, our money, the remainder of our weapons, and our pride.

Malik and I nearly died trying to make our way back to Masyaf. We moved by caravan, and the entire journey was spent arguing. I pointed out that if he had not embraced that first whore, we never would have spent the night. He was outraged that I even suggested we drink something while we worked. According to him the case is not yet closed, but I think we can both understand whose fault it is.

When we arrived at the fortress, barely robed, de-hooded, and bootless, we were a laughingstock. I'd marched all the way up to the Master's study, stamping my numb feet with each step. I demanded to know why he had embarrassed us so. Al Mualim only chuckled and told me to find my clothes.

Now some might see this as an unavoidable occurrence, but I believe my youth and arrogance were to blame. There are…so many ways that assignment could have ended. Being trapped in a closet with my closest friend and not a stitch of cloth was not high on the list.

I am certain you will not tell anyone of this. I fear what would become of me should my wife ever get her hands on this story…

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad.


	8. Seven: Swimming

February 12th, 1190

**Anonymous asks: "Dear Altair,**

** There are rumors that you can't swim. So I've been wondering, why's that?**

** Thank you so much for being honest!"**

To the anonymous,

I would like very much to clear up all misconceptions you may have heard bumbling about: I CAN swim. I am physically capable of holding myself above water and diving beneath it.

However, I do have a bit of an aversion to swimming. I prefer to stay away from water on all accounts, actually, and I shall tell you why: it can kill you.

This may sound like an odd claim, coming from an Assassin. But it makes sense, does it not? Does one approach a rabid dog and attempt to subdue it, simply because he can? Does one leap off a cliff into an endless gorge just to feel as though he is flying? Does one jump into the tumultuous waves of water and flop around until his limbs tire one by one and he sinks to the ocean's bottom because he finds it amusing?

The answer to all these questions, I should hope, is no. Water keeps us alive and sustains our fragile human organs, but it is by no means a friend. I have watched many an unwary Templar fall beneath the waves without having a chance to remove his armor. I can only imagine the terror they must have felt, realizing too late how slow their deaths would come.

I once experienced something similar. The truth is that such an incident can change a man's life, as it certainly did mine. It taught me the valuable lesson I hold dear today; water is dangerous.

I was eleven years old, a student within Masyaf's walls. I was attentive in my studies, serious in my training, and eager to please. But, dedicated as I was, not even I could escape the need for some fun now and then.

On the especially hot days (and Masyaf had plenty), a group of colleagues and I would travel down the road to the sea. There was a beach not an hour away from the fortress, and on a bright day the water brought such soothing relief to our broiled skins. It was there that I learned to swim, taught by the boys descended from fishermen and other water-working peasants. It was a difficult and frightening process, but well worth it in the end. There was a whole new world beneath the water that I had never even dreamed of, almost alien in its appearance. Striped fish with large fins like sails, animals that seemed to float through the water like the carpets in the old tales, and shrubbery of all unnatural colors.

Once I had mastered the art of staying afloat, I was able to join my comrades in the games they played at sea. As a boy I greatly enjoyed their fun, and we began to look forward to the summer with immense enthusiasm.

It was very hot that day. Our mentors felt pity for us, the poor boys trapped within the oven of the castle walls, copying manual after manual. They let us out early that day, ordering us down to the beach to cool off before our brains seeped from our ears. I was overjoyed at their kindness, and I led the party down the village into the road.

There were five or six of us, I think. We trotted down to the beach and tore off our sandals. The sand burned out feet, but we didn't care; the sooner our clothes were off, the sooner relief would come. Tunics were tossed into a pile behind a rock and then it was into the water with us.

Oh, it was so sweet. The touch of the warm waves was like a wet cloth to a fevered forehead, unknotting the burnt, exhausted flesh. We played for a short while, but for most of the time we merely floated, sleeping in a restless bed. With sun above me and the water below me, nothing had ever felt so nice…

And then everything changed.

The storm came from out of nowhere. It was blistering afternoon in the late summer, far too early for the rains. Yet all of a sudden, the air felt charged. A ripple of thunder broke the tranquil atmosphere we had created and scattered my companions' expressions. I ended my float and evened out to treading, glancing about at the bewildered faces. The sun was gone now. Color was leaching from my surroundings; everything turned a dull shade of grey. Another surge of thunder, and then the water came pouring down.

There were yells all around me, but I hardly heard them. The rain was fierce and angry, pelting us like stones. The first few drops were so intense they shoved me under, where I nearly inhaled a gallon of the sea.

I climbed to the top and caught my breath. I called out for my friends, but I could no longer see them through the curtain of falling rain. I couldn't see anything, not my friends, not the shore, not even the village in the distance.

For all I knew, I had suddenly been cast out into the ocean.

Then the storm took a more violent turn. Lightning, quick and bold, almost struck the water. It brought with it a furious boom of thunder, so terribly close I cried out. It upset the waves, and the previously serene lake became a monster rearing to swallow me.

I tried to get away; I paddled fast as I could, I dove under and kicked and struggled, but it was all in vain. The waves tossed me about like a child's toy, filling my lungs with salt and my throat with screams. It was fortunate none of my bones were broken, though the sheer force of the water was so strong I had thought they'd shattered completely. I rolled endlessly from splash to splash, unaware of everything but my own horror.

It was not long that I flopped about like a dying fish. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes when the storm disappeared, just as suddenly as it had come. The thunder receded and the rain stopped. I was underwater, sinking down, down, down…

But then the sun broke through the clouds, and I was renewed. I wouldn't die if I could see the sun. It persuaded me to kick upwards and break the surface, gasping and coughing. It brought heat along with light, and both were things that I'd longed for with a desperation the truly frightened me.

I heard them calling my name. My head whipped around to see my classmates along the beach, staring out at me. I realized dully that I was much, much farther from the shore than I had been when the storm hit.

My little body was terribly sore. It took all of my strength to pull myself back onto the beach, where I lay on the sand, retching. The burning ground felt good, and it was almost funny how quickly the tables had turned. Before my flesh had felt charred and tight; within the course of a few moments, it had turned cold and clammy. I slept on the beach for a long time afterwards.

I assume that by sharing a few of my insights on swimming, all "rumors" have been put to rest. Some consider it a sport. I consider it a dangerous addiction that should be avoided, like all things lethal.

I will answer no further inquiries on this subject.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	9. Eight: Malik

February 19th, 1199

**Yintoph asks: **

** "Dear Altair,**

** I have one question for you and would love to hear an answer:**

** How did you meet Malik?" **

To the anonymous,

I was introduced to my good friend and advisor, Malik Al-Sayf, under troubled circumstances. After a large misunderstanding with my companion, Abbas, Al Mualim had placed me in the castle dungeon. I had been forced to live there a month. During that long length of solitude, I thought. As a boy- no, a young man, social status was important to me.

Abbas had always been my strongest ally. We played together children and learned together as students. He comforted me in my times of sorrow, and I attempted to do the same. But when I told him the truth of his father's death…

Upon my release from the dungeon I found I could not dislodge myself from the permanent sense of meditation my incarceration had forced me to. I rose every morning wondering what trouble Abbas and I would fashion that day, only to have such ideas torn apart by my memory. The boy who had always been my best friend had come to hate me. Whenever I passed him, he looked at me with such sharp loathing; his cold rage cut me to the bone.

It was feelings like those that clouded my mind on the evening I first met Malik Al-Sayf. I was sitting in the fortress' back study, trying to read and failing terribly. Instead my eyes would be captured by the mountains out the window and would fall upon the stars. I would stare at them for a long while before returning to my work, and even then it was with an absence of mind.

"I believe you."

I did not even hear him come in. The sudden announcement startled me and I jumped in my seat, head whirling to the study's entrance. A disciple my age leaned in the doorway, his dark eyes watching me carefully.

I frowned, "What do you mean?"

He lifted his chin briefly, indicating myself, "A month ago, you spoke the truth of Ahmad Sofian's demise."

Shame filled me at the mention of Abbas' father. I shifted and my gaze lowered itself.

"That was a sad little lie I weaved."

"No, it wasn't."

His voice held such certainty that I was forced to look up, curiosity overpowering my need to punish myself. I examined him from afar, this boy who thought he knew my intentions better than I did.

The other student folded his arms, "You know what you said was right. You lied to quell Abbas' fury; which is a waste of time, I might add."

"What do you know of Abbas?" I asked, tilting my head. He chuckled softly.

"Only that he is not fond of his elders. Nearly took my head off when I instructed him to lace up his boots before leaving his room."

I had to laugh at that. Abbas had done the same thing to me many times, even though I was his younger.

"And you believe I told the truth about Ahmad's suicide?"

"Of course," He nodded, "why else would you wait for him to isolate himself and blacken his heart with agony? No, you felt Abbas needed to know. That it would bring him closure."

"I was a fool."

"That you were," He agreed, and turned his back. I watched him as he left, his next few words ringing in my ears: "but at least you were an honest one."

The next morning it was not Abbas' name that plagued me, but the want of this boy's. I needed to find him again, but to my dismay he carried a bland set of features. Dark skin, dark eyes, and dark hair described nearly the entire village of Masyaf.

I hadn't the slightest clue where to begin my search. So, I set to wandering the halls, hoping that one day I would simply come across him and we would open up to each other like old friends. While I waited for that moment, I returned to my studies. The lack of fog in my mind made it easier to concentrate, and I was pleased to note that my progress returned to its normal pace. While Abbas glowered and sulked, I merely elected to move forward. The thought of the new companion that awaited me was more tempting than the guilt provided by Abbas.

Finally, the event occurred. However it was not the expected young man that I met; rather, a short initiate with blue eyes.

"Altair!" He ran to me, excitement coloring his cheeks. I did not know the child, and his robes indicated he was of much lower rank. I was interested in knowing what gave him the right to call me by name, though.

"What is it?" I asked while he caught his breath.

The blue-eyed initiate grinned at me, "It is an honor to meet you at last, master! My brother has told me much of your skill!"

I raised an eyebrow, "Who are you, child?"

He bowed, "Ah, forgive me, mentor! I am called Kadar."

"Kadar?" I repeated, ignoring his enthusiasm, "No title? No father? Just 'Kadar'?"

Kadar appeared even more flustered than before. In hindsight, I feel badly for teasing him so. He could not have been older than twelve.

After a few moments, Kadar admitted that he was often titled 'the small' or 'the younger'. But he did not let his name bring him lower, and for that he earned my respect. From that day on, I began to see more of Kadar. He pursued me relentlessly, always trying to get my opinion on something. And when he could not find a topic to discuss, he asked for assistance in his training. The boy had a certain helplessness to him that made him difficult to refuse, and so I aided him. In doing so, I gained Malik's attention.

We had been out on the training field when he arrived. I was teaching Kadar a more effective method of grasping footholds in a structure.

Malik called his brother to him, and the boy answered without question. I joined them soon after climbing down from my perch.

"I knew we would meet again, Altair." The eldest of us greeted.

"Your name," I said desperately, "I must know. Your words the other night haunt me still."

He chuckled again, and I became certain that there was no mistake. "How easy you are to confound, little novice."

"I am Malik Al-Sayf, and I believe you have already met Kadar."

"'The Swordsman'?" I quoted, perplexed, "I have never seen you in the training ring."

"Ah, of course you haven't," Malik murmured as he led his brother back towards the fortress. He motioned for me to follow. "My skill would blind you, inexperienced as you are."

For the first time in months, I smiled.

Malik became my friend and mentor that day. Over the years, the two of us established a connection far greater than I had ever experienced with Abbas. Malik not only understood my advantages, he understood my failings. He was the straightest, most direct source of guidance I could hope for, and he continues to be today. It is only a shame that I had wronged him…

At Kadar's death…I will not make excuses. Malik had done nothing but right by me, and I acted like an ass. My grief over Adha, my love, and the thrill of my ascension to Master Assassin made it so hard to relate. There are times when I still feel low as dirt, and am compelled to apologize to Malik whenever I can. He will not have any of it, though. In true Malik fashion, he understands why I proceeded the way I did. And for that I am grateful.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	10. Nine: Yaoi

February 26th, 1212

**Diana asks:**

** "Dear beloved Altair,**

** Have you heard of Yaoi? You didn't? of course you haven't! If you haven't, Altair, you might want to look at some pictures of you and Malik…and fanfiction stories about you and Malik. After you seem them all, please tell me about your reaction?" **

** Kallios asks:**

** "Dear Altair,**

** I can only assume that because your reply-letters and questions are being posted publicly on the internet then you know about computer and such, and have maybe…MAYBE gone online and seen what your fans have written about you. If so, have you discovered what is called "slash" or "yaoi" and what is your reaction to it? I apologize if I am treading on what is a sensitive subject between you and Malik." **

** Jadeah asks:**

** "Altair, I'm sure you've been online plenty, so I'm wondering what your opinion is on all these pairings people have stuck you in. Seriously, it'd be nice to know."**

** Someone I Cannot Remember The Name Of asks:**

** "Dear Altair,**

** What's the relationship between you and Malik? Are you a couple or just two guys?"**

My disturbingly devoted and curious followers,

For the past month, my editor and I have been receiving letters filled with questions directed at my personal recollections and me. According to her, at least half of them have concerned Malik Al Sayf, my closest advisor and friend. Many of these messages were filtered off into a separate area, but after a burst of four at once I have taken the situation into my own hands.

It has been made known to me that many people consider Malik and myself to be in a romantic relationship. With much trepidation, I searched a website known as 'Deviant Art' for paintings representing this belief. It is…amusing to see what scenarios our followers have concocted between the two of us (especially relating to Malik's handicap).

However there were and are certainly images that perturbed me. The fact that others denote time and effort into creating these pictures, pictures that dictate _my _very private affairs, is quite troubling. In many I am shown touching my friend inappropriately, and in far more we are seen undressed. I am glad that I have been made aware of these paintings, but I find myself wishing violently that such things should have been unnecessary.

To the inventors of these images: I have a very special message for you. Please, for the love of all things dear, listen close.

My name is Altair ibn La Ahad. I am forty-seven years old.

Nineteen years ago, I married a beautiful _woman _named Maria Thorpe. We have two children, Darim and Sef. They are seventeen and fifteen years old.

I am currently the leader of the Assassin Brotherhood, and I am situated in the mountain-fortress of Masyaf. Since directing the Order is a strenuous and difficult task, I have appointed a man named Malik Al Sayf to aid me. Malik and I share a complicated history, but I trust no Assassin like him because of it. He has always guided me, always tried to do what is best for me even if I did not listen. Though I have suggested many times that he find a companion, Malik desires to remain alone. It is his choice, and I respect him enough to accept that.

While Malik is my right-hand man, he is also my friend. I am certain I have made this clear. There is no romance between us; such a notion is ridiculous and fantastic. We are both male.

You still do not comprehend, do you?

The following has become my understanding based on my study of the Apple: love is not a required part of one's life. Love is a reaction to thousands and thousands of years of survival tactics. The human race has existed for far longer than I could ever know, and to be sure that it continues that way, it must reproduce. Scientifically, reproduction occurs when a male excites a female. This activity signals the organ within the female body that forms a child, thus contributing to the species as a whole. The concept of 'love' only makes this basic need into a silly ritual that sits pleasantly in our minds and eases our consciousness.

Now if a male were to excite another male, no child would be produced. The species would not be preserved, meaning that the ritual would have no practical purpose, and therefore a man desiring another man is simply an instance that does not occur. I am aware that some males can experience a genetic deformity that causes them to crave others of their sex, but this is not an ailment I suffer from.

This is the barest reason why Malik and I are not in love. It is the simplest explanation I can offer you. I fear that if I try to clarify using my own feelings for the man, my words would be twisted and morphed.

I sense there is little more left to say. I am mature enough that having viewed these paintings does not scar me. However I was deeply disturbed and I must admit my esteem for humanity has decreased a considerable amount. Merely thinking that somewhere far off, any person could be imagining myself and my closest friend kissing triggers an ache in my head.

Perhaps I have offended you, my valued followers. Perhaps in your strange little minds, I carry a burning passion for the only person in my life I have deeply wronged. If this is true, then nothing I say can change you. From what I've seen, this misunderstanding is rooted so strongly that no form of reality will ever penetrate it. And if that is the case here, then so be it.

This whole business has put a rather bad taste in me.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	11. Ten: Sleep

March 4th, 1191

**Sirene asks:**

** "Dear Altair,**

** Do you ever get more than a few hours of sleep? It always seems as though you are always on the move- and although it's understandable, it surely can't be healthy.**

** Also, I've heard that the rafik of Jerusalem would have you face the wall when you rest between assignments- as to not bother him. Is that true?**

** Just wondering."**

Safety and peace, Sirene.

It may surprise you to learn how little sleep a functioning person actually requires. I myself strive to claim no more than four hours scattered throughout the day, depending on how much work my schedule demands of me.

Other Assassins, however, certainly share your opinion. There are many of the type that, once they return to Masyaf with a mission completed, will retire to their chambers for weeks at a time attempting to recover rest lost. It takes a great deal of coaxing to lure them out for training, lest their bodies become so heavy they cannot lift themselves from their beds. Such Assassins will not leave the fortress until Al Mualim commands them to, and when they receive that order it will be with much groaning and reluctance.

I cannot abide such behavior. Whenever I return to the castle, I admit that I am exhausted only physically. My mind is still sharp and longs to speak with the master, eager to ask the questions that plagued me during my journey. My brothers understand this anxiety and allow me to enter Al Mualim's study, but when our meeting is concluded they turn much colder.

When I was younger, these Assassins felt concern for me. They would urge me to rest when I arrived, assured me that whatever inquires I had could wait another day. I shrugged off their worry and continued on unperturbed, and for a while this had only distressed them further. But with time, their care for my actions diminished. Eventually, it was replaced with a sort of jealousy. When I exit the Mentor's chambers, I perceive snickering and sneering. Perhaps they think that I consider myself above them in fitness as well as in rank, which I suppose I do. But I am not a machine; I am a well-organized man who knows his strengths and limits. The problem, I believe, lies with my fellows and their lazy tendencies.

There are many reasons why sleep can be just as formidable a foe as a Templar's blade:

Sleep encourages a body to give in to lethargy. It is so much easier simply to lie down and close one's eyes than to keep fighting the tide and struggle. This, my friend, is a metaphor: if a body can give in to sleep so effortlessly, how much more so will it surrender to fatigue? To clumsiness in the heat of battle?

Ah, this is the root of many losses my Order has suffered. Men shower their energies and excitements on activities that do not benefit them. Resting, eating, reading, swimming, talking, loving- all can be reduced to massive wastes of time. If Assassins could only redirect their thoughts and realize what is truly important, they would be much swifter in combat and their concentration would be fierce. These materialistic 'needs' are but distractions, and dangerous ones at that. Leave them to the citizens that we fight to defend.

In addition, too much rest deters a mind from its useful thoughts and ideas. Many a random hour I have been struck by inspiration and been motivated to act upon it. However, I am certain that had I been sleeping, such inspiration would never have come. Or, even worse- the design might have visited me anyway, and I in my laziness would ignore it. When a body is at work, it is so much more productive than when it is at rest; that is an obvious fact. Therefore, why shouldn't one endeavor to be awake perpetually? There is so much to be accomplished and so little time in a day. Even with my tight resting agenda, I always find myself a few hours short. While this is a failing, I must remind myself that a man cannot do more than put in his own efforts, lest I fall into that spiraling hole of self-punishment.

Lastly, sleep can be just as addictive as a narcotic. Truly, I feel I know several Assassins who are constantly under its influence. It is not a lack of sleep that turns a man bleary-eyed and stupid, but an abundance of it. The body craves any substance that it can receive in multitudes, and a deep slumber is no exception. When a man rests too often, he will begin think of his naps as something necessary. Eventually he will find no way to live without his nightly dozings and will start to rely on them. Once that happens, the man is half lost. The other half of his defeat comes when, inevitably, he is needed during his time of rest. He will be awakened and called to defend his home and his brothers, but his mind will still be foggish and confused. His grip on his sword hilt will be unsteady, and he will be easy prey for an enemy's weapon.

I am sure my point on this matter has been made quite clear, Sirene. In regards to your other observation: the rafiq of Jerusalem tolerates me, but like many others of my Order, he retains a certain level of envy. While he does not force me to face a wall, he does not appreciate my interrupting him, which is something I seldom do. Although he is rafiq, and I am quite justified in asking him for a number of services while I inhabit his bureau. What is his job if not to provide we Assassins with sustenance and comfort before and after we carry out the master's will? No, he does not like that I am able to so expertly command my body, and will use whatever opportunity he is given to strike at me with his tongue. His barbs do not worry me, though. They only increase my sense that I am superior amongst Assassins, and my underclassmen grudgingly accept this.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	12. Eleven: Reason To Fight

March 11th, 1221

**Roy asks: **

** "To Mentor Altair:**

** My name is Roy Saquel, I am an Assassin of the modern age, and I seek your guidance. My question is simple but its answer still alludes me: why do you fight? I have tried many times to find the reasons behind my actions, and now I wish to know yours.**

** Yours to the End." **

Safety and peace, Roy.

It pleases me to find that even in the days to come, our Order is strong. Your doubts and concerns are normal and it is good that you are paying them heed.

I had similar worries when I was young. When I spoke to the rafiq of Acre about my troubles, and he urged me to embrace them. Fright, uncertainty, hesitation- all useful and fine.

"I should not fear these feelings?" I had asked him with curiosity.

"No, Altair. They are what make you human."

But now I shall progress to my point. We are Assassins, my friend. We are the ones who stand up for the people when their legs have given way and their voices are tired. We are the ones who perform the tasks that others cringe at because we know that they must be done. We are the protectors of humanity.

Taking a life is never easy; not even I can agree to that. How many nights have I lain awake and remembered the faces of the men whose futures I have so savagely stolen? Had they families? Wives and children? And then, like yours, my conviction will waiver. How am I- a mortal man- to know what is right in this world? What is good for the people and what is not?

These questions cannot be answered, but they can be studied. I will not be able to give you a solid response, nor will anyone else. But I encourage you to draw your inspiration from your surroundings, like I have.

Once, many, many years ago, I suffered from a lowness of spirit. I had been ordered to end a life I did not think required ending, and the act caused me much grief.

At the suggestion of the rafiq, I exited the bureau and rambled about the town. The warm air helped alleviate the aching in my head and muscles, but unfortunately it did nothing for the heaviness in my heart. Through the course of my strolling I took in many sights: a pair of children playing in the dirt, a mother and a daughter weaving in the shade of a palm, a group of friends giggling drunkenly outside a tavern.

Observing the lives of the citizens I fought to guard filled me with a strange sense. While it did not cure me per se, it replaced my sadness with interest. The rafiq's words replayed themselves in my mind, "life is better here because of the things you've done". I considered how the few activities I'd witnessed might have changed had I not assassinated the Templar governor of the area.

My walk came to a head when I passed the market. I approached a simple fruit stand, intrigued by a woman's angry outbursts. After a few moments more, I took a seat on a bench and watched the spectacle with wide eyes.

It took a while for the nature of the argument to dawn on me. At first glance, it seemed a matter of opinion: the woman thought that the man's merchandise was worth much less than he charged her. However, in the span of a couple of minutes, I realized that much more was at stake than a handful of coins.

The woman continued to explain her case, but the vendor would not give in. Eventually he pointed out to her (well within my earshot) that it was in her best interest to pay the price he established. She took to this with a mocking laughter, wondering if he threatened her.

"Listen well, dear lady," He said quietly, "if I were to call the guard and label you a thief, who would come to your defense?"

"You would not do such a thing," She scoffed, but the damage was done.

This concept hit me with great impact. It is possible that had it been two men bickering, the same outcome would have arisen. However, because the customer was a female, she would immediately be judged in disfavor, whereas the male would at least be given a chance to speak his mind.

With these thoughts on my mind, I stood from my spot and drew near to the couple. The woman turned to me in surprise when I announced that the merchant would give her the basket of fruit for the honest price. The fruit vendor snorted at me, informing me that his business was none of my concern- but a glint of my hidden blade convinced him otherwise.

I escorted the lady home. While we walked she spoke of the unfairness of the market and the prejudices she suffered at all times. But she couldn't help noting that only a few days ago, the souk had been the least of her problems.

It was that woman who changed me. I listened as she told me of the tyranny she and her family had struggled through, and how glad she was that it was at an end. Her words were not intelligent, nor charming, nor even very interesting, but it was their mediocrity that engaged me. This woman was the innocent I sought to keep safe from harm, and I had just done so without spilling a drop of blood.

I fight because the Templars are out there, overcharging the people for their fruit simply because they can.

If my story has not convinced you to fight on, I implore you to go out and discover your own. Walk the streets of your city and study its people. In time, you will come to find your reason.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	13. Twelve: Peace

March 15th, 1231

**Wolfsbane asks:**

** "Dear Altair Ibn-La'Ahad,**

** The assassins kill for some greater, but isn't peace achieved through nonviolence and negotiation? From what I've experienced, violence leads to more violence and a never-ending cycle of war starts. I understand sacrifice is needed for peace, but why bloodshed? As an assassin and as an admirer I only ask for your guidance.**

**Safety and Peace." **

To the anonymous,

You are correct in stating that peace is achieved through nonviolence and negotiation. However, you are also correct in noting that sacrifice is necessary for change.

As my mentor once told me, peace is something to be understood. To be learned. My enemies, the Templars, would be more than willing to enforce peace through efforts of 'nonviolence'. But now I ask you this: if one forces another, either through strength or through speech, to befriend his sworn foe- will there be unity? Is negotiation truly so powerful that it can open a man's mind in ways unimagined?

Humans are stubborn and ignorant creatures. We deceive our loved ones, we deceive our rivals and we deceive ourselves. We make falsehoods into truths to ease an ever-greedy conscious, and even then we are not satisfied.

Hatred is a common failing amongst men. Again, as I was taught in my youth: never harbor hatred for your enemies; such thoughts are poison and they shall weaken you. Take my own bitter rival, Abbas Sofian: when I left Masyaf after my wife's death, I left it in the hands of a man driven out of his mind by rage and jealousy. When I returned three years ago, Abbas seemed empty and brittle, as though his abhorrence had eaten away through his body and left only a spark of intellect untouched. To kill him was almost an act of mercy, and his dying words revealed to me what perhaps I knew all along; that Abbas' fury was borne of grief.

Say I had not killed Abbas. After twenty years of exile, the old man and I meet in the garden where he murdered my wife and son and speak with one another. What negotiation could even begin to address the suffering we have both endured over the past six decades? What shall I expect him to do, apologize? No, his mind was far too corrupt for such ideas to even enter it.

Corruption. When a man's mind is consumed by it, no soft-spoken words will find purchase within.

Many years ago, I sought to end the life of the Templar Grandmaster, Robert de'Sable. I listened patiently as my master informed me of his designs and his motives: he wished to use the Apple, an ancient artifact, to obliterate the free will of the Crusaders and Saracens, forcing them to lay down arms. At first I had despised this Frenchman who believed himself permitted to play with the delicate minds of men. But after considering the fact that Robert wanted only an end to the war, as we Assassins did, I began to think differently. I asked my mentor if the Templar could be convinced to end his mad quest, shown that no good would come through force. After all, we shared a common goal: peace between men. Where was the challenge in pointing out to Robert that a forged truce between Crusaders and Saracens would mean nothing?

But Al Mualim refused me. He answered that Robert's psyche was too preoccupied with this plan and the certainty of its success that any opposition would be met with the sword. As I mentioned above, humans are wretched beings. To attempt to fix them would be to confront the very soul of madness, and I understand now why so many Templars are claimed by its claws. As the saying goes, 'a man will be led down the path he wishes to travel'. If a Templar very dearly and honestly thinks that the only way for man to befriend his enemy is by destroying his will, very little will change that.

Why bloodshed? Why not disarm these lunatics and compel them to give up their crazed schemes? Simple; they will not comply. It is not that I do not believe them humans. It is that their minds have been ensnared by an idea that is flawed at its very core: that artificial peace is what our world requires.

And the only way to remove an idea is to kill the source.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	14. Thirteen: Son of none

March 18th, 1250

**Burakgazi asks: **

** "Safety and peace, Mentor,**

** I have been pondering something for quite some time, and perhaps you can help me understand it. I am an apprentice Assassin in Kostantiniyye-yes, despite much resistance, we have managed to become established here- and my teachers are telling me the tales of your deeds.**

** But I am confused by your name, Mentor. I have heard stories of your father as well, and I know that he died when you were still young, but I do not understand why you would be called "son of none". Did you not wish to carry your father's name after his death? Or perhaps in Syria, you name your children differently than here in Kostantiniyye?**

** Honor upon you,"**

Safety and peace upon you as well, friend.

I was a weak and helpless child when my father was executed. As you most likely know as a result of your learning, Umar was sacrificed so that the Assassins and the Saracens might have a truce. Little divulged is it that Ahmad Sofian was the one responsible for my father's death, but Ahmad himself showed valor when he took the blame. A few days following the execution, Ahmad approached me directly and begged my forgiveness for the grief and misery he had caused me.

And yet I did not know my father well. Whenever anyone asked me, 'what is your name, child', I would reply instantly with 'Altair, son of Umar'. Then they would nod and inform me that my father was an honorable man.

But in my time of childhood, it was strictly against the Creed for a boy to develop a bond with the man who brought him into this world. It was well known that if an Assassin should marry and produce children, those children would be forced into the Brotherhood and made to carry on its works as they developed.

I can understand this. In a way, parental bonding is weakness. If, for example, the enemy were to abduct my son and demand I obey them, I would be placed under much torment and sorrow, but I would still be forced to sacrifice my son. For the sake of the Brotherhood, it must be done. Such torture could easily be avoided, however, if parents and children were to be separated at birth.

When Umar allowed himself to be beheaded, I do not think he worried about me. In fact, I might have been the farthest thing from his mind that day as he was led to the stage where the butcher waited. He probably thought of his mentor, of his poor colleague Ahmad, of the loving wife he knew he'd soon see. But his present child he promptly ignored.

It was always that way between Umar and myself. Perhaps he abandoned me specifically because he was afraid of me, afraid of the damage I would inflict upon his conviction.

Afraid of the pain it would cause me to watch him end his life for the Order.

Because he did not care for me, the choice was easy. He could walk into his grave with eyes wide open, noting that he served his Brotherhood well and would now be allowed his rest. But for weeks after that awful day, I wallowed in misery. I had hoped that with time, my father would come to appreciate me; to love me. Finally, I'd wished so dearly that Umar would come to be _proud _of me. With his death, all such dreams dispersed, and I was left an empty child.

Until my training began. When I introduced myself to my fellow recruits, my father's name was delicate on my tongue. At first, the name had been mentioned with reverence and mourning. But as the months passed, Umar became a sharp click, something to be spat out and not repeated.

I resented my father for not loving me and for leaving so willingly. In the presence of my elders, I showed Umar the proper respect he deserved, but in private I scoffed at his mistakes and swore never to imitate his deeds. All those with consolations and sympathies were turned away, and bit-by-bit I erased the memory of my father from my heart.

Some of the things I told myself to blacken his reputation were true; some were not. The end result was that by the time I had turned eighteen, I had all but become the son of another: Al Mualim.

It was the Master who suggested I drop Umar's title from my own. And why shouldn't I have? In my greatest time of need, it had always been Al Mualim who had listened to me, had heard my cries. From birth, my father avoided me like a plague while the Mentor took me in and taught me principle. I was aware of the conditions of Al Mualim's affection, but at that point it did not matter; I wanted attention, and he gave it unquestioningly. Eventually, my desire to be noticed grew so strong it transformed me into an object of arrogance and pride.

And so I became Altair ibn La Ahad. Because in truth, Umar was a stranger to me. My father was a man I'd never been allowed to meet- why should I honor him by placing his name after mine? If one were to ask me for a list of persons I have loved dearly throughout my life, Umar would not be among them.

I wish you success in your studies. May fortune favor your blade, Assassin.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	15. Fourteen: Future

March 25th, 1192

**Jazmyn Rose asks:**

** "Master Altair,**

** I was looking at these fanfictions about fans that went you your time but kept the future a secret from you. Now I must ask you, if someone was to tell you what your future was to be like (after the incident at the temple had happened) would you have changed what you did? Would you have killed all those templars? Or would you just ignore the person and think them crazy?**

** Peace and safety," **

Upon you as well, Jazmyn.

There are many different facets to your question that go unspecified. What part of my future was to be divulged? When? Where would they tell me these things, when Malik and I arrived at Masyaf with news of Kadar's death? Or as Robert and the remains of his host stumbled down the mountain with defeat fresh in their minds? As I prepared for my journey to Damascus to slay the Templar, Tamir? Of these details, I can only wonder what you intention was.

I will try to recreate the scenario you speak of. Imagine I am already in Damascus, resting a moment in the bureau's outer chamber. An oddly dressed man I do not recognize approaches (I take liberties with this. I have not read these 'fanfictions' you mention) and calls me by name. Though I am alarmed at his familiarity, I allow him his chance to speak

He says that he hails from days long in coming; eight hundred, nine hundred, possibly a thousand years in the future. This news is difficult to swallow, and yet he goes on. He warns me that I am being manipulated by my master.

Without slowing down, he reveals the artifact Malik and I recovered to be a "mind-control device", an object that can rend the wills of men asunder. My master, Al Mualim, is using me to eliminate the other Templars- yes, Templars. The master is in league with them, hoping to share the glory of the artifact in the "New World", in which everyone is submissive.

After I vanquish the other nine men, my master will use the Apple, as he calls it, to enslave my hometown of Masyaf. Al Mualim will try to turn me as well, but I will not be turned. Eventually, we will duel and I will defeat him. The Order will be consumed by chaos and a civil war between Assassins will erupt by our Mentor's grave.

He is done speaking. The man disappears, leaving me to my thoughts and schemes.

Now what, I wonder. What can this information possibly provide me? What am I to do? To obey my master, even knowing that he will betray me? Or to confront him directly, where he will use words and trickery to convince me that he has my best interests at heart (and I will believe him, being weak and confused)?

When it comes to matters of the future, I am of one, clear mind. If a man is told exactly what is to become of him, he will try everything in his power to change it. Through his efforts, the future will only be assured, and the event he saw to prevent will come to pass through his own doing.

So, if I am told that my actions will bring about much misery and death to the Brotherhood, what am I to think? The only reasonable reaction would be to consider my soothsayer mad and his word faulty. But still his speech would instill doubt, and my targets would prove harder and harder to pin down. Perhaps I would have failed, died even, for such distraction played with my head.

In all honesty, I believe I would have disregarded the man. That answer is simple, reliable, and true. It is possible I would have conceived of my master's plot earlier in that case, but again, it is not for us to know for certain.

The 'had you known', 'would you have', and 'what if' questions of one's personal history and maddening, and I would prefer not to dwell on them again.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	16. Fifteen: Darim and Sef

March 26th, 1210

** Mona asks: **

** "Master Altair,**

** I know that you love your 2 sons so much, but can you tell us any more moments between you and your sons?**

** Peace and safety,"**

Upon you as well, friend.

You wish me to tell you a story. I will oblige.

An interesting tale unfolded last year when I taught my two children, Sef and Darim, how to mount and ride a horse. Maria, my wife, had been very much opposed to this outing, and it took many days' arguing for her to relent. Eventually, I did triumph and when the weather was stable enough, my sons and I descended the mountain of Masyaf with two steeds in our possession.

It was at the peak of the hill that I taught the boys how to approach a horse. Sef was the greater challenge, being only twelve years of age, but he made do. Soon, both of my children were settled somewhat anxiously in their saddles. I collected the horses' reigns and slowly led them down the mountain, watching Darim and Sef carefully should either of them threaten to fall.

We followed Masyaf's main road to level ground, keeping the sea to our right. I began at a crawl speed, but as the children grew accustomed to the grinding of the horses' movements beneath them, I increased our pace. The air stayed crisp and warm, and the breeze was tolerable. All in all, I could not have picked a better day for riding. I remember thinking at that time how Maria's predictions of gloom and despair could possibly find purchase in such pleasant surroundings.

When we reached territory's edge, I turned left, leaving the road and entering the grassy wilderness. Sef was nervous about this detour, but I assured him that we were to stay within a mile or two of the main road. Besides for that, the horses were well-trained Masyaf steeds, and they knew to return to the water's edge to find home. There was a large area beside the road, completely empty of obstacles save for an old ruin or two. It was the perfect track for training.

We proceeded for another quarter of an hour before I allowed the horses to pull to a stop. I helped Sef climb down from his steed and informed Darim that he would be the first to learn.

Things continued smoothly for the remainder of the morning. Darim was an exceptional horseman and picked up the skills of the sport with an ease I almost envied. At first I'd encouraged him to advance gradually, but within the next hour Darim was grinning as he ordered his horse to trot circles around his brother, who was frowning into a treatise I did not remember him bringing.

After Darim successfully galloped from one end of the track to the other, I decided it was Sef's turn. The boys were given a few minutes to chew through the rolls and meats Maria had packed them, and to douse themselves with water. Then, Sef propelled himself into his steed's saddle while Darim sat in the dirt to watch.

Sef lacked much of Darim's confidence, but inherited the same amount of balance. My youngest son was able to keep himself steady on the horse, so long as the animal maintained a constant speed. However, we had only progressed to the canter when disaster struck.

A snake had the audacity to slither out from the brush at the exact moment Sef politely asked his horse to accelerate. Wretched creature! To this day I do not recall how such a development had escaped my watch, but before I could do anything a hiss stung the air.

The reptile coiled itself not an inch from the horse's hoof, preparing to lash out. Its rattle of warning startled the mount, which then proceeded to shriek with fright.

The horse reared and my heart skipped several beats. Fortunately, Sef managed to cling to its mane, yelping in fear and surprise. Then the animal turned abruptly and launched into a full gallop back for the main road to Masyaf.

For a moment, Darim and I merely stood in silence. Then, once again preempting my action, Darim leapt onto the other horse and spurred it into a dash, racing after his brother.

I pursued them as fast as I could, but not even my great speed can compare to a horse's sprint. I called after my sons desperately, only hoping that they had not been hurt. Their figures were disappearing over the horizon, but Sef's screams could still be heard on the wind. I could scarcely make out Darim as he lined his horse beside Sef's and extended an arm to him. I ran faster, pouring every ounce of power in my body into my own two legs. Provided we all survived this ordeal, Maria would have my hide.

Finally, as I knew it must, the horse reached the main road. It did not, however, turn right and proceed to the castle. Instead, the animal continued to dash towards the sea, completely oblivious to the cliff it was about to fall over. Both horses were moving far too fast to slow down in time.

The next few seconds will remain forever stamped on my memory:

Darim threw himself from his saddle and tackled Sef off his mount. Seconds stretched into minutes as my sons collided and thudded into the dirt, their steeds crying as they pitched over the edge.

I hurried to them, painfully noticing the lack of movement on both sides as I approached. Darim and Sef lay sprawled on top of one another, and each boy was matted with sand and dirt. I knelt beside my children and hastily pulled them apart, hands trembling with fear they had been injured. I called Darim's name, and he coughed lightly in response. Slowly, he opened his eyes, bleary and confused.

When Sef awoke he was pale and stiff. I touched his arm, hoping to help him up, but my grip wounded him severely. The poor boy suffered a dislocated shoulder, which I set to mending right away. I embraced the two of them, a rarity for me. It's ironic… an Assassin twenty-five years, and I had not experienced true fear until I saw my own children limp and motionless.

Maria had…words for me when I returned to her. I earned every lash of her tongue, but still I could feel nothing but relief that there were no lasting injuries upon either of our sons.

I love Darim and Sef so dearly, and to lose one of them would be to lose a part of myself.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	17. Sixteen: The Pregnancy

March 29th, 1202

**Wiki-girl99 asks:**

** "Master Altair,**

** Forgive me for asking something so silly, but I really want to know. What was it like when your wife was pregnant? Did she scare you in any way during her pregnancy?**

** Safety and Peace Master."**

To the anonymous,

My wife, Maria Thorpe, is a valiant, honorable, and principled woman. That said, her first pregnancy truly morphed her to the degree that many a day I could not recognize her.

First, there was the sickness. I remember that moment rather clearly- it was a crisp winter morning and we lay together in bed. I awoke in a comfortable fashion with my face buried in my wife's neck, but apparently Maria's wake was less relaxing. Her form trembled next to mine and she was emitting what sounded like a whimper. Without warning, she rolled away from me, sprung off the bed and dashed from the room in the fastest sprint I've ever seen. Moments later my ears met with my wife's coughs and a wet splat.

And that was only the beginning. Maria would arise in this fashion at least three times a week for two months, but even that disturbing fact pales in comparison to her cramps.

The cramping was an omnipresent monster that Maria occasionally attempted to attack with her fists, not caring whether it was Malik or myself that caught the blow. Actually, where the muscle pain was concerned Maria showed a disquieting lack of care what her actions led to.

A good example of this was when (and I do not know why I allowed it to happen) Maria volunteered to teach novice swordplay. There was some brief argument- Malik was unwell, and Maria insisted she'd lain around moaning for long enough. In the end, however, I gave her leave to enter the training ring with a squad of initiates. After all, she is one of the best swordsmen I've ever known.

Maria seemed to have the situation well in hand, and so I retired to my study to root through reports and letters that demanded a Mentor's attention. I'm not certain how much time passed- perhaps an hour, perhaps two. But eventually, the panting of a journeyman interrupted my work.

"Master!" He breathed, "You are needed in the courtyard, immediately!"

"What is the trouble?" I asked, replacing my quill in its inkpot.

The Assassin shook his head, "I cannot explain. You will understand when you get there."

Though his answer irritated me, I accepted my student's advice and quickly made my way down the stairs and into the plaza. The novices were still in session in the training circle, and at first nothing seemed out of place. Only when I approached did the scene change.

Maria's face was dark with frustration and she was quite winded. Two apprentices stood before her, both very nervous in appearance. My wife snatched a sword from the grasp of one initiate.

"Since you are so incompetent that you cannot even comprehend the notion of a balanced strike," she was saying as she slid into a fighting stance, "it appears I shall have to demonstrate!"

Suddenly, she pulled her arm back and steadied the sword, ready to hack the other novice into pieces. I launched myself forward, sliding over the circle's gate and catching Maria's hand before she could decapitate my student.

Maria responded to my interference with outrage, almost attempting to hit me as well. But the sharp tone of my voice shook her from her fury, and almost instantly she burst into tears.

I apologized to the novices profusely and instructed the quaking men to take the rest of the day for themselves. Then I escorted my wife back into the castle while she wailed about how my love for her was undeserved and artificial and other such gibberish I do not care to remember. Later she admitted it was the fierce knotting in her stomach that caused her reason to flee her.

Five months into the tribulation Maria managed to disappear for an entire day. As she and her swelling belly were seldom difficult to find, I grew worried. Malik and I searched everywhere for her until finally Maria was revealed to be hiding in a dark corner of the dining hall's pantry.

My best friend left us alone as I seated myself beside her, calling her name softly. She looked up at me with stained cheeks and watery eyes.

"Altair," she sniffed and quickly wiped her face with her arm, "Altair, I- oh, what's the use." She lamented and ceased her attempts to clean herself.

I could tell she planned to commence a long, self-deprecating rant, and so I swiftly interrupted her by fastening my arms around her shoulders and pulling her to my chest.

Unfortunately, this only triggered her sobs and within seconds my robes were soaked. Maria mumbled incoherently into my clothes, pausing now and again to snivel. It amazed me how a woman of twenty-seven years could be brought to her knees by a simple fetus. Still, in an effort to calm her, I whispered empty sentiments to her hair and rocked her gently. My plan succeeded, and soon Maria explained her anxiety to be borne of fear of childbirth. She rambled on about what would become of the baby should she die in labor, and that if she were to survive and the child wouldn't, she would kill herself. I silenced her and made her swear never to speak of those things again, but I am certain thoughts of that manner plagued her the remainder of the pregnancy.

But Maria failed to scare me until the moment of her labor.

It was a midsummer evening, and she was with me in the study, watching me work. My wife told me that she felt odd that morning and desired my company almost the entire day. The event was so sudden. One moment I was working, the next Maria's breathing quickened and she cried my name.

Something came over me in those few seconds. I pulled her from her seat and into my arms, running down the study stairs to the birthing pavilion. I still recall how her gown felt damp and how the air whipped around me as I ran.

The hours she suffered in labor were some of the most frightening in my life. At times I was convinced she was dying in torturous agony, but I was forbidden from entering the room. Malik came instantly and helped me regain my composure.

Maria in childbirth…I believe that her agony was one of the main factors in my decision to permit women to join the Brotherhood. It is peculiar, is it not? That women undergo such torture and stress, what should be called the ultimate test of endurance, in an event that we men see as only natural? Further still, as the very bane of their existence? And yet they are dubbed the lesser sex and are prohibited from owning property and wielding a blade.

I digress. Darim finally arrived in the early hours of the morning that summer day. Malik was kind enough to stay up with me, as I could not bear to leave the birthing chamber's door. As soon as I perceived the crying of my child, I all but leveled the entrance to the ground.

A maidservant led me in to where Maria lay on bloody sheets, shoulders heaving. Our son shrieked as a girl cleaned him and wrapped him into a bundle of cloth. Then he was placed at his mother's bosom, where his wails soon ceased.

Maria was quiet for a long while. I believe she may have been in shock, staring down at the little face that mirrored her own. They had both survived. Darim took his time in arriving, but he was well worth the wait.

I was surprised that Maria obliged a second child. Childbirth only served to strengthen her, and I can certainly attest to her power in motherhood. Occasionally I'll find myself wondering we males are considered dominant when it is the female that raises us.

Either way, I am forever grateful to my wife for the sons she has given me. I once thought the Creed was all a man needed to fulfill his life.

I am fortunate to have been wrong.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	18. Seventeen: Crying

March 31st, 1252

**Tyler asks:**

** "Dear Altair,**

** People say that a crying man is weak, but personally I believe taking the time to release built up emotions makes a man stronger; so heres the question. Have you ever shed tears in your life and if you have ,what was the cause of them? Rather they be sad, or happy, please share.**

** From a curious young novice," **

Safety and Peace, Tyler.

There is a saying that the local people are quite fond of: "The strength of a tear opens closed gates".

I have cried over many tragedies throughout the course of my long, long life. The act of sobbing is hardly even a conscious choice- rather it is our body's way of communicating what words cannot. Tears contain a certain power that to this day I remain unable to comprehend. I suspect the Apple would hold the answer to this inquiry, but I dare not touch it again.

It is understandable that a weeping man should be considered a sore sight. We are taught from childhood to be strong and apathetic. As I believed for many decades, a show of emotion is a show of fault.

But the act of lamentation is comparable to that of vomiting, is it not? When a body is so wracked with grief and torment, which are just as tangible things as any form of disease, one must work to expel these feelings. Similarly to a stomach ridding itself of vile substances, the heart must cleanse itself of pain. To be seen crying, however, is embarrassing and dirty, and we seek still to do it in private even though it is where we will receive the least amount of aid.

Adha…yes, even after all these years I easily recall her name. She was so dear to me. Anything she asked I would gladly do. Young as I was, I'd planned to make a life with her. I planned for children and a home far away from the corrupted world I was sworn to heal. For Adha I would have given up everything.

And yet when I found her lying on the cold deck of that boat, her face a cruel mask… I changed. Tears were not enough for her.

I tracked down every man who'd laid a finger on her. My blades sliced through their throats and I tore their lives from their bodies just as viciously as they'd taken hers. But this brought me no relief. No closure.

Only once I'd returned to Masyaf could I mourn her properly.

I didn't want to do it. I entered my quarters and closed the door behind me. I remember how each step felt heavy as I walked to my cot and sat. Her name, her face, her scent, her touch. I didn't want to think about them. And yet they were the only comforts my mind had to offer me, and what happened next was not a choice.

My eyes became hot and moist and my throat tight and swollen. I buried my face in my hands and grieved. I thought of the future that would never be, of the love that died so needlessly. I sobbed her name, muffled as it was, hoping that she would hear me and return.

I am no longer ashamed to admit these truths. Scouring myself of the sorrow I endured enabled me to refocus on my studies. However impossible it sounds, within a few weeks I had passed from her. Adha remains a faded memory, one that was cherished and will never be forgotten. But if her ghost had settled on my shoulders as I tried to learn my craft, I could never have become as accomplished as I was.

That is why it is so important to relieve oneself of burdens only they can imagine. The deaths of those closest, wounds so deep they shatter the body…if we had not been given the tools to repair these damages, I fear we should never recover from the ordeals life inflicts upon us.

Still, this does not mean that a man should take every opportunity to empty his heart on the floor. No, I still believe that if the soul demands a person cry, he should do so alone or with his family. Everyone sheds tears, novice. To do so is to be only human.

[xxx]

Honor upon you,

Altair ibn La Ahad


	19. Afterword

April 1, 2012

Hey everyone,

Well, I can't believe it's been three months already, but time has flown and Ask Altair! Has come to its close. No more questions will be accepted at this time, but I really want to thank everyone who participated. Even if your questions didn't get answered, thank you very much for reading and asking anyway! Altair and I really had some fun with those (although I must admit, I had to force him to answer a few of them. He's what you'd call extremely picky when it comes to his readers).

So, now it's time to pick the next writer! Who will pick up the quill following Altair? A poll is open at iguanablogger's profile (accessible at the top of the page), and I implore you all to head over there and vote for your favorite Assassin (or Templar)!

**The poll will be open until April 18****th**** at which time the next writer will be revealed. The poll will not close unless a minimum of forty-five people have voted. **

Every vote counts, people. So get in there and give it a shot. I'm not sure when the next Ask fiction-letter will start. Hopefully the 18th, but I might hold it off till May. You know, to give us all a healthy break.

If you're an anonymous reader, you won't be able to vote in the poll. In that case, **please leave a review with your choice. **It shouldn't matter that you don't have a profile, your vote will be counted separately and added together on the 18th.

That's about it. I've had a great time. Thank you all for participating!

-iguana

(And a short word from the Mentor, Altair ibn La Ahad):

"Safety and Peace, followers.

As I believe I opened with, I am both stunned and disturbed that so many of the future world would seek my advice. I have aided as best I can, and only ask that you continue to live as you see fit. Though I am flattered by the multitudes desiring my input, remember that no words will tell you what to do. Nothing I say can help you. You are the only ones who can choose your paths.

It has been an…interesting experience working with you all.

Nothing is true, everything is permitted."


End file.
